


Walkin' on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Humor, Other, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: It's a hot summer's day in London. Sherlock and John have to walk home from an investigation, with no money, and with the loss of a crucial item of clothing.Additional warning for John swearing like a sailor.





	Walkin' on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2017 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #2: Summer in the city.
> 
> Inspired by CedarTheBarefoot.

John Watson was walking at a brisk pace down Highgate Road, trying to have as little contact with the pavement as possible, muttering a steady stream of invectives under his breath, while a red-faced Sherlock limped slightly behind.

“We need to go – fucking hell! - to the Highgate Pools, you said”, John grumbled, getting increasingly louder, “it's for a case, you said. We need to blend in to find the suspect, you said, have a swim – Ow! Bastard! - in the Men's Bathing Pond, and of _course_ you don't tell me what's going on, you never – Damn! - never do, and while you're looking for whatever it is you're looking for, you are getting a fucking sunburn you stupid _idiot_...”

Sherlock tried to interrupt, “This _was_ for a case...”

John laughed sarcastically. “Hah. The sunburn?”

“Of course not. The trip to the pool. The murder victim was known to go there every day, so it follows that the killer, who knew the victim...”

“I don't _care_ , Sherlock. And do you want to know why I don't care?”

Sherlock shrugged as best he could while limping after his friend. “I assume this was a rhetorical question?”

“Shut up, Sherlock, and let me tell you why I don't care. Because while you were sitting on the grass looking for a murderer, without any – god dammit! - sun cream on I might mention, as if you _want_ to end up with a melanoma, you fair-skinned _git_ , and I'm in the bloody water, someone – ow fuckit– some utter _bastard_ nicks our wallets and phones and the only way, Sherlock, the only _bloody_ way you can come up with to try and stop him is to throw our bloody _shoes_ at him!”

They had to stop at a traffic light, Sherlock balancing carefully on one leg while John did a strange dance of apoplectic rage. Sherlock frowned at him, suddenly reminded of a children's story. He almost told John, but then remembered that it would probably not go down well if he started to compare him to Rumpelstiltskin.

“They were the closest thing to hand”, Sherlock said instead, waiting impatiently for the light to turn green.

“They were our _shoes_ , genius! Which are now in the middle of the bloody _pond_!” Finally they could cross, John hot-footing it across the tarmac, cursing with each step.

Sherlock managed to look sheepish underneath his sunburned skin. “I'll admit they weren't ideal missiles for the task...”

“Not ideal? Not ideal? They were my _shoes_! And yours, though of course you managed to keep one of them.”

Sherlock silently limped behind John for a while. John was correct that as far as the current situation went he was slightly better off than his friend, who was blaspheming at the pavement and life in general. By this time, they had reached Camden Town and turned right onto Parkway. “We'll be in Regent's Park soon, you can walk on the grass there”, he pointed out.

“Oh wonderful.” John was unappeased. “Grass and glass and duck shit and goodness knows what else. No, Sherlock, that's not much better than the grime and rubbish of the streets, which I am walking on with my bare feet because even though you thought it would be a good idea to try and hit the thieving bastard with our shoes, he managed to get away. Now we don't have enough money for an _ice cream_ , let alone a bus or god forbid a cab. I'm going to have to get the card reported stolen and get a new one which is going to be a bloody nightmare, and probably yours too because you can't be bothered with little things like that, _and_ do the same with the phones.”

“I'm sure we can get new phones from Mycroft...” Sherlock tried to interject.

“ _Fuck_ Mycroft!”

Sherlock couldn't argue with that.

“Where is your all-seeing brother now with his ubiquitous car,” John continued, “and why isn't he picking us up for once? I'm getting _blisters_ on my feet, Sherlock, actual _blisters_ , and not just from the walking, oh no! Because here's the kicker, Sherlock, here's the god damn _cherry_ on the god damn _cake_ , because you managed to get my shoes drowned in a bloody pond that's too deep to even _try_ to get them back on the hottest. Fucking. Day. Of the _year_. You could fry a bloody _egg_ on the pavement and a steak on the tarmac! My feet feel like a fucking _barbecue_!”

There was nothing Sherlock could say to that. His unshod foot which had to make contact with the ground felt pretty much like John so eloquently described. There was only the park to cross before they'd be in Baker Street, and he'd be glad to finally get there and stick his foot into a bucket of ice water.

“We'll stick our feet into a bucket of ice water as soon as we get home”, he told John. “There's sun cream, aloe vera gel, and burn cream. I'll buy you new shoes. I'll buy you two pairs. When I get the new card, that is. Look, we're in Regent's Park. We're almost home. I could...” Sherlock hesitated. “I could... carry you the rest of the way?”

John stopped, standing on the park grass after all, having decided it was the lesser of two evils. He blinked at Sherlock. “... carry me?”, he asked, perfectly poised between anger and amusement. “You want to carry me home?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I should probably have offered before; as you say, at least I have one shoe left.”

“Carry me to Baker Street, through the front door and up the stairs?” John specified.

Sherlock frowned. “Yes. Why? Is that a problem?”

“A _problem_.” John looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. “You sunburned lanky idiot want to carry me home. Over the threshold. So we can stick our feet into buckets of ice water which is probably going to turn black pretty quickly given we've both picked up half the dirt of London with them. God, you old romantic.”

Sherlock was confused. “I fail to see what is so romantic about me carrying you...”

John saw the moment enlightenment hit, and he started grinning despite himself.

“... over the threshold”, Sherlock finished. “Yes, I see.”

John started walking again. “I'm afraid I can't let you do that”, he said, “you'd hurt your sunburned self if you did. Besides, if anyone's going to carry someone across the threshold, it'll be me carrying you.” He giggled. “It's not like I never did before, after all.”

“You did no such thing”, Sherlock insisted. “... did you?”

John grinned at Sherlock. “The Case of the Nine-Tailed Kitten?”

It should not have been possible for Sherlock to turn redder than he already was, but he managed. “Oh. Yes. That.”

“Yes”, John agreed, “that. So, there will be no carrying of anyone today, and I hope to all that's holy that you didn't use up all the ice in the freezer because we're going to need it. And don't even think I'll let you forget about getting me new shoes.”

They had finally reached Baker Street and stood in front of their door. Or rather, Sherlock stood, balancing once more on one leg, while John hopped from one foot to the other. “Are you going to open the bloody door, then?” he asked.

“... he may also have stolen the key”, Sherlock admitted. John groaned.

_“Mrs Hudson!”_


End file.
